Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)

He swung around. Michaels stood in the doorway, regarding him with concern.

“No. I think the smell finally got to me.” He took a deep breath, fighting the urgency beating through his veins. “The body’s upstairs.”

“Foul play evident?”

“No, but look for it. I want cellular analyses included.”

Michaels frowned. “That’ll take some time.”

“Emma Pierce has nothing but time. Get the sweepers into the second bedroom, too. Someone else has been staying here, so see if you can pick up any DNA traces.”

Someone had cared enough to stay here and look after Emma as death approached. So why hadn’t she cared enough to report the death and bury her?

Michaels nodded. “You want us to contact you if we find anything?”

“Yes. Send the results through as soon as you have them.”

“Right.” Michaels headed for the stairs.

Gabriel tapped the wristcom’s contact button, then said, “Place a call to the SIU.” The screen went blank for a moment, then the SIU’s digital secretary answered.

“Christine, have we got a location signal on Agent Ryan?”

“Sector Five. One-five-six George Street, Fitzroy.”

“Anything of importance at that location?”

“It is commonly known as the rave district.”

Gabriel swore softly. While he’d asked her to investigate who might have supplied Jadrone to Harry, he hadn’t expected her to practically run out the door the minute he’d left her office. “Any reports of trouble in that area?”

“None, sir.”

No reports of trouble, no indication that Sam herself was in trouble. So why was he so certain that she was? “Christine, send someone to collect my car. I’m heading out to join Agent Ryan.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the connection broke, he walked outside and called to his alternate shape. Power surged, burning through his body, snatching away sensation and pain as every nerve ending shuddered, twisted, to find new form. Then the sensation died,

and an odd sense of emptiness followed. A heartbeat later, he was a hawk soaring skyward, heading toward the city.

—

Smoke tickled Sam’s throat, making her cough. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, empty of saliva. Her throat felt raw, parched, as if she’d scalded it. Even her lungs burned.

She groaned and rolled onto her back. Moisture ran past her ear, tickling her scalp. She swatted at it and her fingers came away damp. It was a sticky dampness, like blood.

Why was she bleeding? Had someone hit her over the head? Maybe the budgie had been armed with a big brown club. The image made her smile, but only for a second. Smoke swirled, thicker than before, catching in her throat.

Urgency began to beat through her, but it was distant, muted, as if fighting its way through a veil.

She opened her eyes. The budgies flew above her, their movements frantic, panicked. High-pitched cries of terror itched at her ears as they desperately sought an exit. One that the shapechanger must have blocked after her departure, because there was no trace left of a changer in the room.

Frowning, Sam turned her head. Across the room fire roared, gold and red. It not only reached bloody fingers toward the ceiling, but was spreading swiftly toward the desk and the fat man. A fat man whose shoes had started burning.

“Please,” Max said, his voice a mix of hysteria and urgency. “Help me.”

The flames were beginning to reach his trousers. His legs jumped and twitched, as if in time to the silent music of the fire.